Priorities
by electrickpurple
Summary: Jack: "Funny how a man’s priorities can change, when he’s had a few too many." - Insomniac!Cutler, Wet!Jack, and copious amounts of alcohol... not a good mix. It seems priorities can change, very easily. Speckett slash, M rated


_Disclaimer: Only plot belongs to me. Characters and movies property of Disney. _

_Author's notes: My second Speckett fic - finally! This one is separate to 'Beckett's Mark', but I suppose it could be considered a sequel, as Jack and Cutler's relationship is developed a little more. Hope it matches up to my previous efforts - I tried to have a little more plot in this one._

_Mainly just because I wanted to get Jack in a wet shirt xD - but I digress..._

_Again: any reviews, comments, and constructive critique are always welcome. _

...

It was ill-advised to walk the streets of Port Royale at night. No end of unsavoury characters were said to lurk in its dingy alleyways, long after even the backstreet inns had barred their shutters and doused their lamps – and this was despite the port's standing as one of the most reputable in the Caribbean, what with it being policed by the King's navy, no less. Even with the iron fist of the East India Trading Company firmly pressed on this particular spot, it seemed that very little could deter the town's undesirables – namely its omnipresent pirate population – from seeking the simple pleasures owed to them. So much so that they would even venture out during a torrential storm.

On this particular night, rain drummed incessantly downwards, loosening the muddy walkways of the town and disturbing the turbulent waves that rolled into port - tiny dinghies rocked and lurched in the stormy weather, straining their guy ropes, whilst the old vessels creaked violently. Not even the most prestigious households could escape the bleak shadow being cast by the heavy storm clouds, which threatened to seep through the very window panes and snuff out the candlelight with its wispy fingertips. This was not the best environment for sleep, and Lord Cutler Beckett had managed to evade it for several hours, having retired to his quarters to find that both the epidemic of pirates swarming the streets in his absence, and the violent weather, were causing him severe insomnia. He sat at his writing desk, head in his hands, watching as watery missiles hurled themselves against his bedroom window, leaving messy splotches in their wake. The wind seemed to rattle the very foundations of his town house residence, dislodging small clouds of sawdust from the rafters above to dust his bed sheets, his desk, his shoulders... any surface they could find, and the various lamps upon the walls flickered wearily, the flames nearing the end of their short lives, giving everything around them a faded orange glow. Feeling the onset of a migraine, Cutler groaned softly, trying in vain to massage his temples whilst what sounded like the apocalypse raged outside his window. He hadn't even bothered to dress for bed, resolving instead to simply wear a white shirt, buttoned around his neck, and sand-coloured breeches. But it seemed that with such an influential post, certain sacrifices had to be made. And if a few nights' insomnia was the price for purging the Caribbean of pirates, he was more than willing to oblige.

It was at that point that a handful of pebbles collided with his window.

Cutler started, narrowing his eyes and glancing suspiciously at the window in question, drumming his fingers on the tabletop thoughtfully. Any thoughts that it was merely coincidence were quashed immediately, as after a few moments' pause, the same thing happened. He rolled his eyes dramatically, resolving that anyone juvenile enough to try and taunt him with such a stunt wasn't worth his valuable attention, and walked over to the fireplace to pick up a candlestick, with the intention of venturing downstairs to alert his staff to a nuisance outside that needed to be eradicated. However, just as he reached for the door handle, he heard the most curious noise. At first, he thought it was a dog being strangled, but through the downpour he couldn't be certain. So he edged cautiously towards the window, unsure of what he would find, using both hands to push up the sash and lean out through the open gap, grimacing each time a raindrop splashed onto him. His eyes took a few moments to accustom to the hazy darkness and the blurry curtain of rain, but a silhouette was distinguishable nonetheless. Not, as it turned out, of a strangled dog, but of a man -though it might as well have been the former, from the horrendous sounds coming from the wastrel's mouth. '_Is...Is that __singing__?' _

The figure, whilst obviously heavily inebriated, still seemed to be able to manage basic functions, for at the sound of the window opening, he straightened up slightly, and turned his head to face the front of the building, staggering backwards a couple of steps as he did so. At the sight of the man's face, Cutler couldn't decide if which he felt most – confusion or despair.

"Jack... Jack Sparrow?" He shouted out into the darkness, temporarily shocked by how weary and hoarse his own voice sounded.

The pirate reacted so violently to the sound of his name that he staggered several feet to the right, dropping his rum bottle in the process. He threw his arms enthusiastically out to either side, a thoroughly self-satisfied smile on his face. Cutler wondered if it was his imagination, but he swore he could smell the stale alcohol even from his upstairs window.

"Aye, 'tis me. Who's asking?"

He then proceeded to look all around him for the source of the voice, giving a clumsy pirouette and falling flat on his arse. Cutler raised his eyes skyward, shaking his head, and retreated back inside the window, drawing the sash downwards to click shut. Despite a voice in his head urging him desperately to go to bed _immediately, _asking his staff to bar all the windows and doors before he did so, Cutler took the candlestick again, descended the flight of stairs, and unlatched the front doors, swinging them open before he could even come to terms with the implications of what he was doing. It was only when he came face to face with Jack, in the most disgusting state, that he regretted acting so rashly. The pirate was completely soaked through, his dreadlocks hanging in limp tendrils around his face, kohl-lined eyes heavily smudged. He seemed to have misplaced his hat, and one of his boots. And he stunk completely of rum. Cutler reeled back where he stood, covering his nose with his forearm, groaning at the odour, which stung his eyes.

"What the devil happened to you?" He spluttered "– Or need I really ask?"

Jack had at least managed to stand up properly, but his gait was incredibly uneven as he approached the open doors, a slightly bewildered look on his face. He looked at Cutler in silence for a few moments, and then cocked his head to one side, narrowing his eyes in uncertainty.

"Wait... you're not Marie." He said eventually, glancing at Cutler's chest for clarification.

"Marie? Mar... Who the fuck's Marie?"

Cutler barked, starting to deeply lament not staying in his room, and feeling less than patient with the drunken oaf on his doorstep.

"I – I thought this was Marie's place," Jack slurred, trying to peer over Cutler's shoulder.

"Well, clearly, this isn't 'Marie's place', so you can just - oh no you don't. Stop right there, Jack."

Cutler stuck out his arm, clutching at the doorframe to stop Jack as he tried to nudge his way past. Jack stopped; mere inches from the other man, and gave him a smile full of gold teeth.

"Jack, you're... all _wet_."

Beckett remarked in a bewildered tone, his expression softening to mirror that of a reproachful parent. His free hand was held slightly aloft, fingertips barely brushing the soaked fabric at Jack's upper arm. Jack seemed confused for a moment, then looked down at his soaked self, snorting softly,

"Congratulations, you've just won the award for the year's best statement of the bloody obvious."

The man's gaze snapped immediately from Jack's sopping wet shirt to meet his eye, lips pursing into a frown of disapproval.

"What are you doing here, Jack?"

"I told you; I was looking for Marie. Are you sure she's not here?"

He took Cutler's unimpressed expression as a frank 'no', and so decided to continue.

"I've been out for a few drinks, y'see – but the inn's too far from the docks for my liking, so I decided to find meself some lodgings for the night, instead of braving all that rain to find me way back to the Pearl."

"You're a _pirate_," Cutler stressed, spitting out the last word as if it left an unpleasant taste, "surely you've braved worse than a little downpour? Besides, what makes you think that anyone would want to give you lodgings looking like _that?_ – you look like a shipwreck casualty."

Jack frowned, before blurting out,

"Three words mate: Pot. Kettle. Black. Gods be praised that at least you don't have that ridiculous wig on tonight."

Cutler raised his eyebrows in surprise, and then gave a small, yet malicious smile,

"So you _do_ know it's me, then."

"Course I do. I'm not as thick-witted as your navy chums."

A short pause; in which an awkward silence fell between them. Cutler chewed absent-mindedly on the side of his mouth while he waited for Jack's futile attempt to save his skin. After all, he had just come face to face with the man who held his death warrant. Certainly not as accommodating as Marie – whoever the hell she was.

"So – can I have a room then?" Was his eventual request.

Cutler laughed aloud – a bitter sound though it was - not having been quite so amused in a long time,

"For someone who's not thick-witted, you clearly haven't thought this one through. You do realise I could have you hung for even _standing_ here? There's quite a high price on your head, you know."

Jack appeared thoughtful, and then shrugged and pushed past Cutler's extended arm, leaving a damp trail as he dripped his way through the hallway. He lurched forward a little way before swaying on the spot to face the other man, his hands held up in a gesture of surrender,

"Aw, just let me off this once, for old time's sake, eh? I promise: you can hang me in the morning."

Cutler was impressed by the sheer gall of the man, if anything. But it wasn't enough to redeem him of his innumerable crimes – nor was any reference to their scarring past. He watched the drunken fool trailing mud across his best Persian carpet, a scheming expression on his face, contemplating 

the best way to have him incarcerated. Prison? The stocks? Or just cut out the middle-man and have him hung straight away?

Wait.

He nearly smacked himself in the face for sheer stupidity. Who would be available to arrest a pirate in the early hours of the morning, especially when he had most of his men guarding the battlements at that moment for that exact purpose? And besides, he was Lord Cutler Beckett – supposedly more than capable of reprimanding a prisoner himself. Sighing in exasperation, he realised he would actually have to grant the unkempt rogue's request, just to make sure he couldn't make some far-fetched escape attempt before morning. '_Bloody pirates.'_

"Get upstairs then - and make it quick, before your odour seeps into the wallpaper."

"Got any more booze?"

"No – get upstairs."

Cutler snapped, pushing the man upstairs himself, whilst trying not to retch. On reaching the landing, he opened the door to the first unoccupied room he could find, and shoved Jack inside.

"There. Sleep." He barked, leaving the candlestick on a small armoire for a little light, before heading off in the direction of his own room.

"Does this mean that the master's room's off-limits, then?"

Cutler stopped, turning on his heel to see that Jack had followed him back out into the hallway, and was smiling devilishly. Feeling a prickling sensation around his face and neck, Cutler stared incredulously at the pirate, upper lip curled in a disdainful snarl. He didn't even want to contemplate what Jack meant – but it could only concern theft of some kind. At least, he hoped that was all he meant.

"I know you're drunk, Jack, but seriously, could you stoop any lower?"

"Well, I'd be much less tempted to follow you if you got me a bit more rum."

"Clearly you can." Cutler sighed, shaking his head. At the risk of finding out just why the pirate wanted to follow him, he ventured into a nearby drinks cabinet, producing a decanter of brandy and shouldering past Jack, where he entered the room he had allocated to him and placed it on a small table.

"There. Please leave me alone now. I don't think you'd want me to make your hanging any longer or more painful than necessary."

"C'mon Cutler," Jack implored, a strange clarity to his voice for someone so drunk, "I'm doing you a favour here. The least you can do is have a drink wiv' me."

"A favour? Jack, in what _possible _way are you doing me any sort of-"

"Just shut up and 'ave a drink."

Cutler didn't take very kindly to being told to shut up. He took even less kindly to the prospect of having a drink with this man; a sleepless night seemed pleasant in comparison. But the glass of brandy looked very inviting, and his migraine was reaching head-splitting levels. So he sat gingerly next to the pirate at the small table, picking up the tumbler and inspecting it cautiously for a few moments. Once he was sure that it couldn't have been poisoned, he tipped the glass back and downed the liquid in a single swallow. Jack watched him with a curious expression, his eyes following the movement of the liquid and lingering on Cutler's lips. Cutler was oblivious to this, however, as he continued to pour himself another glass.

...

Several drinks later, and whilst Jack's state had neither worsened nor improved, Cutler seemed to be feeling the effects of the alcohol, slumping forward a little in his chair, his expression somehow softer, his eyes less stony. The conversation between the two men had begun to improve, still barbed with insults but less fraught with mistrust and resentment.

"So how does it feel to have a genuine scourge of the seven seas taking residence in your very home?" Jack asked, buffing his nails.

"Oh, absolutely riveting." Cutler scoffed, "Never had I realised just what I was missing, not having that constant stink of booze and wet dog following me wherever I go."

"Wet dog? Nah mate, that's the scent of true hard labour; the hardship of living on the open sea."

"Whilst I highly dispute your definitions of 'hard labour' and 'hardship', I can safely say that that stench alone is enough to earn you the noose."

Jack had slouched back, his arms folded behind his head, humming under his breath, and Cutler found himself appraising the other man's physique quite unashamedly. The sodden fabric of jack's shirt clung tightly to his torso, accentuating each muscle, whilst the skin itself glistened with moisture. Cutler felt a heavy throbbing between his thighs at the sight of this, and was too preoccupied with this sensation to realise that he had been noticed.

"Funny how a man's priorities can change, when he's had a few too many."

Cutler jerked from his trance, meeting Jack's eye and finding that the pirate was regarding him with a penetrative glance. He sneered in reply, pressing his thighs together apprehensively.

"Look who's talking – it's good to know I'm your second stop after the inn."

"Now, now, no need to be prickly."

Jack scolded softly, sliding his hand tentatively from Cutler's knee up his thigh, his palm making the slightest pressure. Cutler felt his eyelids lowering, a sigh escaping his lips, but reacted before his senses became too clouded. He slapped Jack's hand away, the firm, cold look returning to his eyes, and made to get up, pushing his chair backwards and stumbling a little as he did so. '_Fuck, how much have I had to drink?'_

"Goodnight, Jack." He said resolutely, turning to leave but feeling a strong hand grasping his forearm.

"Sit down, Cutler." Jack pleaded, his tone soothing. His free hand grabbed at the waistband of Cutler's trousers, causing him to inhale sharply. But the other man still refused to move, his frame rigid with a mixture of fear and indecision, so Jack lurched slowly to his feet, lingering a hair's width from his face for a brief moment before seizing his lips with his own, kissing him fervently and determinedly. Cutler groaned into his open mouth, a tight knot of passion erupting in his stomach. Sense and reason abandoned him like ashes blown from a fire, and he quickly seized the other man's shoulders, peeling off his wet shirt in one fluid motion. His hands explored the muscular planes of Jack's chest, eventually coming to rest at either side of his waist. Jack's hands were also quick to reciprocate, as he ripped hungrily at the Lord's clothing - Cutler tried to ignore the occasional ripping sound as Jack tore off his shirt and breeches, which fell in loose folds about his ankles. He ground his chest up against Jack's, delighting in the friction against his warm, yet damp skin, heat rising from their two bodies in a hazy mist. They kissed feverishly, Cutler twining Jack's tongue with his own; their moans only muffled by the crushing contact of their lips, as Jack grasped him firmly and forced him towards the bed, a feral hunger in his eyes that betrayed his inner villain. Cutler allowed himself to be pressed onto the bed sheets, automatically hitching his knees upwards and spreading his thighs, his head tilted back slightly. Jack quickly freed himself of his own trousers, and positioned himself on top of Cutler, their shoulders level, the head of his cock just touching the other man's entrance. It was this precise moment that Jack decided to give Cutler the most impish grin, his deep brown eyes dyed amber by the flames in the fireplace, and the other man found himself thinking: Devil. Maybe he was dicing with the devil tonight.

Without space to breathe, or think, or relax into the intensity of what was about to come, Jack lunged into another feverish kiss, whilst simultaneously thrusting himself as hard as he could up inside Cutler, his lust clearly too strong to withstand. Cutler screwed his eyes shut, biting back a moan and biting Jack's bottom lip in the middle of their kiss, his thighs tensing and his hips lurching upwards. His head felt like it would split in two at the sheer pressure of this first thrust, every nerve ending in his body screaming out for reprieve.

"Jack..." He moaned as their mouths broke apart, struggling to meet the other man's eye as a wave of intense pleasure and pain swept over him. He squirmed a little in the pirate's grip, tears pooling in his eyes, his breathing growing shallow. He was desperate for more, desperate for release, but not so desperate as to be broken like a mule.

Jack groaned incoherently in response, his eyelids heavy, his mouth opened slightly in a sigh of ecstasy, lips only just curved into a smile. He must have heard the plea, sensed the discomfort of the other man, but he was too deeply entrenched in the throes of passion to react. It was only when Cutler had relaxed around his length that he opened his eyes languorously and leant into another kiss, this time much slower, much more deliberate. His next thrust was also slower, languid even, seeming to travel from his ankles right up through his shoulders, and causing a deep tremor to course through Cutler's body, his spine curving outwards in a deep arc. He sighed with satisfaction, as the two clammy bodies found their rhythm and began to grind together in steady, recurring motion. Cutler gasped as Jack's hand found his cock, and began to beat a moderate pace, his grip just tightening slightly as time progressed.

Eventually, desire reached its pinnacle, and the two men found their movements to be much sharper and a lot less sinuous, their grunts only serving to punctuate each quickening, graceless thrust. Cutler had lost all sensation below his thighs, his strength concentrated entirely on these salacious acts, and his groin was burning, Jack's hand relentlessly pummelling his cock, until he felt as if he would be overwhelmed with the sensation. At last, he came, shudderingly, into the other man's hand, a guttural sound erupting from his chest, his thighs tightening. His eyelids wavered gently closed, and not long after his own glorious release, he felt Jack's orgasm jolt through him, the pirate clenching his jaw and moaning intensely.

...

It was only typical that Jack would fall asleep straight after sex. He laid there, strewn face-down across the crumpled bed, one leg dangling off the end of the mattress, breathing heavily and with a very self-satisfied grin permanently etched across his face. Every so often, he would mumble something about having a huge ship, and being more than willing to take a nameless someone for a ride on it, and would slur sleazy phrases such as: _"I can help you find your sea-legs, luv."_, while simultaneously slapping Cutler on the thigh. Lord Beckett himself, however, was quite a different story. He sat, propped against the headboard, wide awake, only moving to flinch when one of Jack's flailing limbs landed in his lap. _'On top of everything else, you __have__ to move in your sleep.' _He thought, sighing heavily. How had he got himself into this mess again? He couldn't quite recall, but now that the effects of the alcohol - and his post-coital haze – were wearing off, he was left with a heavy sense of regret that gripped him by the pit of his stomach. He shoved Jack's arm from his lap in self-annoyance, only to wake the pirate up. _'Perfect. Bloody perfect'. _Jack rolled onto his back, grunting loudly, before lazily opening one eye and giving Cutler an impertinent look,

"Do you mind?"

Cutler didn't look at him, but folded his hands across his stomach, and asked, in a level, emotionless voice,

"Why did you come here, Jack?"

There was a brief pause, in which Jack rubbed one eye and yawned widely. He then rolled over onto his side, so that he was no longer facing Cutler, bunching his shoulders around his neck in a fashion that suggested he really wasn't in the mood for an interrogation,

"Gods, Cutler, I already told you..." He eventually answered, a little exasperation – and a lot of a slur - in his voice.

"I want you to be truthful." Cutler replied, addressing the back of Jack's right shoulder. He didn't want to sound as if he was pleading – Lords don't plead – but it couldn't quite be helped. He wanted to rationalise the events of the past few hours, find a way to deflect the blame from himself. He wanted Jack to accept full liability, and in that way it would be easier to accept the terrible reality of what had occurred.

But, unluckily for him, he didn't get his answer. Jack had dropped off to sleep almost immediately, and even as Cutler leant over to coax a reply from the pirate, he heard his gentle snores, and tutted loudly. _'Well, it __was__ a long shot...'_ He thought, sighing softly. He wasn't quite sure when he had finally fallen asleep himself – for it seemed as if he never would, and the time drifted by incredibly slowly – but eventually, the dimming candlelight grew hazier and hazier, and soon, even the plaguing thoughts of the evening's events were erased from his thoughts, as he drifted into darkness...

...

'_Oh, holy fuck.'_

Cutler bolted upright, as the tolling bells of midday rang through the open sash windows of the bedroom, and as he did so, earned himself a rather nasty head rush. Clutching his sore head with one hand, he groaned softly, his bleary eyes gradually accustoming to the brightness of the room. Someone had clearly been in before he had woken, opening all the windows and cleaning up the dozen or so glasses of brandy that had been consumed – and thankfully, eliminating the odour of stale sex, which would have no doubt pervaded the room. It was the reminder of this that drew Cutler's attention to the reason he had woken so abruptly. It was midday. And he had made a solemn, and resolute, promise to hang Captain Jack Sparrow this morning. _'So I'm a few hours late,' _He mused, curling his lip dismissively, _'a noose is a noose, after all.' _Unfortunately for the Lord, however, it would seem that it didn't matter what time he would finally get round to hanging Jack, because, well – he wasn't there.

"Holy... shitting, fucking, bollocking-"

"-Sir?"

His gaze snapped to the doorway of the room, where a man-servant was standing, with a slightly perplexed expression on his face. Ensuring his modesty was fully covered by the bed sheets, Cutler regained his composure, coughing slightly, and spoke in a much calmer tone,

"Ah, sorry, didn't see you there. I was wondering: did anyone leave the house this morning?"

The servant creased his brow, evidently trying to remember. "Not that I can recall, sir."

"No one? Are you sure?" The servant nodded, "Not...a man? ...A pir-"

He stopped himself, apparently quite unable to say the word. But any attempts would be futile, anyway. Jack had somehow, miraculously escaped. And it was already noon. He was probably aboard the Pearl, sailing to heaven knows where... Cutler chewed on his bottom lip, before coming to a conclusion in his mind. There was still hope yet. He could be down to the docks in half an hour, and have his men ready to sail in much the same amount of time. If they acted quick enough, there could still be hope of catching the Pearl. After all, on a still day like this one, it was difficult to gather much speed, even for that legendary vessel.

"No matter." He eventually said, answering the servant's questioning expression, "Just fetch me my watch, there's a good fellow." On knowing the exact time, he could plot the afternoon's events to perfect precision.

The servant stepped over to the armoire opposite the bed, knowing that was where his master usually left his watch before retiring. However, Cutler was most perplexed to notice that it was taking him a long time to locate it. He shifted position a little, trying to peer over where the man was standing. He was sure he'd left it there last night; why was he taking so long?

"Problem?"

"It-it's not here, Lord Beckett."

"_What?..._ Of course it is – have you checked the drawers?"

The servant obliged, rifling through the top three drawers, but had much the same outcome as before. No watch. Cutler folded his arms thoughtfully, trying his hardest to remember if he had, in fact, left it somewhere by accident. But even as he began to consider an alternative reasoning, the servant made a thoughtful sound, producing from the uppermost drawer a small piece of paper. He turned it over in his hands, and then, having found some writing upon it, raised his eyebrows quite dramatically, his eyes darting over to where his master sat in bed. Cutler felt his stomach plummet long before the words left the other man's lips,

"It's a note – addressed to you, Lord Beckett. I do believe it concerns your missing watch..."

He couldn't suppress a small grin, and Cutler glowered in annoyance, thrusting out his hand reluctantly to accept the piece of paper. Once he had hold of it, he waved the smirking servant from the room, and began to read, a lump in his throat, his lips dry. In a terribly scrawled hand, and written in a hurry, the note was almost illegible. But after a great deal of effort, Cutler could discern that it read,

'_Lord C. Beckett,_

_Because I always rather resented that you have more money than me, and because I always have to have my trophy pieces._

_I'll let you know what I can barter in exchange for a solid gold pocket watch, should you ever want to do the same. Oh, and I promise I'll let you hang me when I get back. _

_Thanks for the sex,_

_C.J.S'_

Cutler made an intensely aggravated sound, before picking up the nearest pillow and burying his face in it.


End file.
